


A Gift of Kindness

by dornfelder



Series: I've Been Running Like You [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, a tiny bit of angst, mostly dialogue and sex, outrageous fluff, really I'm not kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3406313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how a not-cat starts it all, in which Hawke has a soft heart, Isabela has no idea and Fenris and Anders drive each other to madness. Varric just needs a drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Now You Understand Why I'm Running Scared](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3295583) . Works as a standalone with the following premise: 
> 
> _Tired of waiting for Hawke to return from Sundermount, Fenris goes to meet his sister on his own. He is taken by Danarius. Anders and Varric get him back. Anders heals and comforts Fenris; as they share their blankets at night, it turns into more._
> 
> This fic explores what comes after. Mostly because I thought to myself, if Fenris can abandon his principles for Hawke, then why not for Anders? It also works as a kind of wish-fulfillment for me because I _really_ don't like to see Anders die.
> 
> Some parts of the dialogue are taken directly from the game; you'll probably recognize them, though some are taken out of context.

Anders finds the figurine on his desk between the scroll of parchment with the latest version of his manifesto, the broken quill and the dried-up inkwell, sitting on top of an old piece of cloth that Anders uses to mop the sweat from his brow. It’s maybe three inches tall, made of jade. He lifts it up, finding that it fits in his hand nicely, the stone warming under his fingers. The artist must have been familiar with cats, because the figurine looks like it might come to life at any moment – sitting on its hind legs, one front leg lifted to clean its paw, tail curled around its body. He finds himself caressing it with a thumb, smiling to himself, then frowning as it occurs to him that it is very unlike Hawke to just leave such a gift for him without saying a word. Anders had been treating a patient this morning when Hawke dropped by with Varric and Fenris in tow, but he would have found the time to talk to him in private, if Hawke had asked him to. 

Then Anders thinks of his less than favorable reaction the last time Hawke gave him a gift and his smile turns rueful. He guesses he probably can’t blame Hawke for wanting to avoid another outburst. 

“Thank you,” he says to Hawke the same evening as they are drinking at the Hanged Man. “The figurine is lovely. I may not have a living cat anymore, but this one might just turn into a real companion. I expect it to start purring any second.”

“Oh?” Hawke says, brow furrowed. 

“You could have stayed, you know,” Anders says. “I might not have found it for days if not by accident, and I would have felt terrible for not saying ‘thank you’ properly. It was a thoughtful gift. I consider myself very lucky to be deserving of it.” 

“Er,” Hawke says and coughs.

Anders stares at him.

Hawke grimaces, then shrugs with one shoulder.

“It wasn’t you,” Anders says.

Hawke bites his lips. “Afraid not.” 

“Oh.” He feels himself blush. “This is... awkward.”

“For what it’s worth”, Hawke offers, “I really wish it had been me, or that I had I were as talented at choosing gifts for my friends.”

“You are!” Anders hastens to assure. 

“That’s kind of you to say.” 

“I am sorry,” Anders says. “I shouldn’t have presumed –”

“Don’t be,” Hawke says. “No, really, Anders I mean it.” He lifts his tankard. “Have a drink with me?” 

“Gladly,” Anders says, accepting the distraction and the opportunity to hide his flushed face behind the cool stoneware. He takes a deep swallow.

Hawke sets his tankard down. “Of course this raises the question…”

“Huh?”

“Who is your secret admirer?” Hawke smirks at him. “The mysterious person whose gift makes you swoon?”

Anders coughs, spilling ale all over the table. “I do not _swoon_.”

“Oi, Varric!” Hawke calls across the room to where Varric is sitting on a table with Merill, Isabela and Fenris, engaging in a card game, Diamondback, most likely. 

Anders groans. “No, really, please don’t –“

“Hawke!” Varric calls back. “You have to come over here and settle an argument. We were just discussing whether Orsino or Meredith would look better in Isabela’s preferred set of clothing.”

"Orsino, without a doubt,” Hawke says, eliciting a triumhant, “Ha! Told you so!” from Isabela. They end up at the table with the others, and nothing Anders can come up with prevents Hakwe from gleefully recounting his tale. 

“And now the question is, who would give our favorite apostate mage...”

“Louder, Hawke, I think Meredith hasn’t quite heard you yet –” 

“... a gift to make him _purr like a kitten_ ,” Hawke finishes with a flourish. Isabella is howling with laughter. 

Merill beams at Anders with clear delight. “But isn’t it lovely, to receive such a thoughtful gift? I wish someone were courting _me_  –”

Varric snorts. “I doubt that what Blondie here wants is to be _courted_ ,” he says, setting Anders’ face aflame. 

“But surely there is someone out there who wants to make him _mewl_ ,” Isabela says, guffawing. Hawke’s shoulders are shaking. 

“Don’t listen to them,” Merill says earnestly. “They are jealous. This person, they have to know you well. It is wonderful, isn’t it, to know that someone cares about you so much that they just want to see you happy, with no other reward in mind?”

Hawke goes silent and strangely soft-eyed at that. Isabela rolls her eyes at them while Varric tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. And Fenris – Fenris is nowhere to be seen. 

Ánders does a double-take, because he could swear that Fenris had still been sitting there a minute ago, all dark and broody and aloof. There’s a sudden, sinking feeling in his gut, telling him that he made an even bigger mess of things than he’d thought.

“You should be glad,” Merill says. “There is someone out there who wishes you well, even if you don’t know who they are.” She frowns. “Unless, of course, it is he same as with those white lilies, that would certainly be less pleasant.” 

Hawke’s shoulders go rigid. His smile disappears as swiftly as the sun behind Darktown walls. 

Isabela heaves a sigh. “Oh, no, now you’ve gone and ruined it. What did I tell you about keeping things to yourself?” 

“Oh,” Merill says. “This was one of those occasions, wasn’t it?” Isabela nods. “I am _so_ sorry,” Merill says, addressing Hawke. 

“Don’t be,” Hawke says with a small smile. “You are right, we wouldn’t want to lose anyone else to that kind of insanity. It is probably advisable to be more wary of unannounced gifts.” 

“I don’t think it is like that,” Varric says, looking at Anders.

Anders scratches his chin to avoid his gaze, even though he silently agrees. 

~~~~~

Later that evening, Anders is well on his way to be completely drunk. Justice does not approve, but that’s nothing new, and his disapproval is not as sharp anymore. Dedicated to one cause, Justice seems less inclined to intervene in other areas of Anders’ life. The price for agreement – for alignment – is high, but there’s nothing to be done about it; things are set in motion, time is running out. The remaining time is Anders’ to spend at his own discretion, reminding himself of what it means to be free, to be human. 

He’s not looking forward to next morning’s headache, but that’s less important than enjoying the way the ale loosens his limbs, makes his smile come easier.

“Blondie,” Varric says by way of greeting, joining him at the bar. “What are you still doing here?”

“I thought it would be obvious. Isn’t it obvious?” Anders asks, lifting his tankard.

“It is, but that’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“But if you know that I knew what you meant, then you also know that while I knew what you meant, I was really trying to avoid _talking_ about it,” Anders points out. 

Varric stares at him. “Has anyone told you that you’re becoming more and more of a madman?”

“Oh, but I always was one,” Anders says.

“Probably,” Varric agrees. “Here’s another question for you, don’t you think it’s time to stop drinking and finally go to have that conversation that’s long overdue?”

Anders takes another deep swallow. Maybe, if he drinks faster, Varric’s will see that Anders is far too drunk to engage in sensitive topics like these. “Here’s a question for you, do you realize that if I wanted to have that conversation, I wouldn’t be sitting here?”

“Well, no, but do you really think that avoidance is working all that well?”

“No,” Anders says with a sigh.

“Listen, Blondie,” Varric says. “I never thought I would say this to you, but if you don’t man up soon, I might have to wring your neck just to get rid of that damned tension whenever the two of you happen to be in the same room. Even Hawke has started to notice.”

“There’s always tension between him and me,” Anders says.

“Yes, but it’s not usually of the ‘I can’t take my eyes off you’ kind,” Varric says. “Or of the ‘I want to do naughty things to you against the nearest wall’ kind. Or –” 

Anders groans. “Stop, Varric, you’re making that up. It’s really not that bad –”

“Exaggeration, maybe, but you get the gist of it,” Varric says. “Be glad that Isabela isn’t currently at the top of her game; _her_ interpretation of the things Fenris and you want to do to each other would be a lot cruder. You can imagine.”

Anders purses his lips, admitting to himself that Varric has a point, even though he is clearly mistaken in his initial assumption. “Fenris doesn’t want to do naughty things to me, against a wall or otherwise.”

“If you believe that, you haven’t been paying attention, Blondie.”

There’s not much Anders can say to that, so he stares at the bottom of his empty tankard. Weird. He can’t remember drinking most of it. “You didn’t tell anyone,” Anders says. “Why didn’t you?” He’s been dreading it, ever since that night. 

“It guess I felt it wasn’t my place,” Varric says. “Unexpected, I know. I’d be lying if I said that it was for your sake. You can deal with a bit of teasing; _he_ can’t.”

“Lovely,” Anders mutters. 

“We should strike a bargain,” Varric says. “I won’t tell anyone if you go and talk to him.”

“What, right now?”

“You’ve been stalling for weeks.”

“If you find me with my heart crushed in my chest, it’ll be your fault.” Anders puts his tankard down. He feels less drunk than the occasion merits, less than he should be after the amount of refills he paid for. “Did you do something to my ale to keep me sober?” 

Varric laughs. “Would I do something like that?” 

“I might hate you a little bit,” Anders tells him and turns to leave.

~~~~~

Fenris’ house hasn’t changed much since Anders was last here, years ago, before the Qunari attacked the city. He figures it’s only polite to knock, though he doesn’t bother waiting for a reply. The house is dark and quiet, with a faint light coming from the master suite where Fenris resides. Since he is emphatically not trying to sneak up on him, Anders climbs the stairs with extra heavy steps, clearing his throat to call out, “Fenris?” without expecting an answer. 

As he enters the room, Fenris rises from his chair in front of the fire. “What do you want?”

There’s an half-empty bottle of wine beside him. He is still wearing his armor, but at least he has parted ways with his sword for the duration of the night; the Blade of Mercy is lying beside the bed in its sheath. 

“It was you,” Anders says. “It was you who gave me that figurine. Why didn’t you want me to know?” 

“I did not mean to deceive you,” Fenris says. “I thought you would know what it meant. It only occurred to me today that you had no idea.”

“An idea – of what?” 

Fenris turns toward the fireplace, his back to Anders. Things _have_ changed between them: mere months ago, Fenris wouldn’t have turned his back on him willingly. 

“We never talked about what happened between us a couple of weeks ago,” Fenris says. 

“I didn’t think you wanted to,” Anders says. 

“I didn’t,” Fenris says. “That was the point.” 

Anders frowns, trying to understand. “But then, why would you –“

“Since Danarius took me, I have started to remember,” Fenris says. “Some things, at least. More and more memories return to me, not always coherent, but still, over time they form a picture. I recall now some of what it was like to live as a slave before those markings changed me.”

He bends down to put another log on the fire and poke the embers, continuing to speak only after he has put the poker down. “The slaves in Tevinter have their own customs among them, born of need and desperation. There is little joy, little comfort to be found within the slave houses. Yet there are gifts than slaves can give each other, in times of need. Gifts that are... rarer than gemstones but worth more as they cannot be taken away. We call them gifts of kindness, for that is what they are. A song, sung to a grieving mother after her child was taken from her. A night’s vigil for the soul of a loved one, shared with friends. A duty assigned to you that someone else will fulfill, just this once, while your feet are aching and you are weakened by hunger. A blanket shared during the darkest hours of the night, while your lover is carried away to the slave market and you know you will never see them again. One first, sweet kiss, given to a maid before it can be taken from her by force, like her innocence. All these things.”

It is clear from the tone of his voice that Fenris is far away in thought. He is still crouching in front of the fireplace, staring at the flames. “The man I was deemed himself above such things. I have rarely received such a gift of kindness and even more rarely _given_ one.” He rises to his feet with unconscious grace, turning to look at Anders. “That night, when I needed it most, you gave me such a gift of kindness. It wasn’t one I expected, nor one I deserved. The Maker knows that I have given you no reason to be kind, and every reason to turn from me in disgust.”

“You mean to say –” Anders hesitates. “When you gave me the figurine – you were trying to – to repay me?”

Fenris shakes his head. “A gift of kindness cannot be _repayed_. It can only be accepted in the spirit in which it is given. How would I be able to repay what you did? It was more of a blessing, more of a _gift_ than you could possibly understand. You saved my life, you gave me back my freedom, that, and more. When I saw the cat at the Lowtown market and thought of you, I did not purchase it with the intention in mind to repay you, but to acknowledge the significance of what you had given to _me_. I assumed you would know what it meant. That was – a premature conclusion for which I apologize; of course you wouldn’t be familiar with such a specific Tevinter custom. I certainly did not mean for it to cause you any kind of trouble.”

“It didn’t,” Anders says. “It was a thoughtful gift, Fenris, thank you.” His words sound awkward, inadequate even to himself. Fenris nods but doesn’t halt in his restless stride. Anders clears his throat. “You know,” he says, waiting for Fenris to look at him. “The kindness – it wasn’t one-sided. It was a gift for me as well. Beyond the obvious, of course,” he adds with a faint smile.

Fenris’ eyes narrow. “Explain,” he says, something between a question and a demand. 

“That night you gave me something too,” Anders says. “Though I don’t think you were aware of it at the time, and neither, truth be told, was I. You gave me...” It’s hard to describe it in a way that makes sense to himself, let alone to Fenris. “You let me be the one to offer you comfort. You trusted me enough – after all you’d suffered at the hands of your master, after everything that had happened to make you despise mages, you didn’t shove me away. You gave me a chance to show you that we’re not all the same. You knew I wouldn’t hurt you further, that I wouldn’t do what Danarius had done. And it’s not been all that often that someone knew me for who I was and yet gave me the benefit of the doubt. So if I gave you a gift of kindness by caring for you, you gave me one by _letting_ me.”

Fenris’ eyes have grown wide with astonishment. “It wouldn’t have occurred to me to think of it that way,” he says. “When you put it like this... I almost wish I could say that I made the conscious decision to trust you, but I’m afraid that I merely...” he’s clearly searching for the right word.

“Forgot about my magic?” Anders asks dryly.

“In a way. Or that the state I was in didn’t allow for a lot of choices. You were there and I was in no position to decline... kindness of any kind.”

“Oh,” Anders says. “Of course.” Anders had been the only one literally within reach. He’d known that Fenris was only allowing him to touch because there was no one else. The thought shouldn’t be this upsetting; nothing has changed just because Fenris has confirmed something Anders already knew.

Fenris comes to a halt. “Although I am wondering whether we might not... want to consider that our actions at the time spoke of our intentions more eloquently than our current attempts of unveiling and _dissecting_ them.”

Anders frowns. The thought, with all its implications, is hard to grasp. 

Fenris tilts his head to the side. “It is possible that it’s not only ever one thing or the other. On rare occasions, the answer might be both. It may have been a gift, unknowingly given. But that a kindness is unintended does not mean that it isn’t one.” 

“That kind of thinking makes my head ache,” Anders says.

“It requires a willingness to consider nuances,” Fenris agrees, a brief smile flickering over his face. 

“You always struck me as as someone who thought ‘either – or’,” Anders says. “I didn’t think there was a room for nuances at all.” _Magic is evil. Mages can’t be trusted._

The smile falls from Fenris’ face, leaving a strangely vulnerable look behind. “Things change. So do people. I’ve come to the realization that there are situations where settling for a simple answer, appealing as it may seem, is just another way of lying to oneself.”

“Most people look for simple answers,” Anders says. “I should know, I’ve been doing it a lot. I wish I could blame Justice for it, but the truth is that Justice has only given me a sense of purpose that has been lacking for most of my life – that, and the single-minded determination to see things through to an end. But a part of me – a part of me knows that whatever answer I come up with isn’t an answer at all.” 

When the smile returns to Fenris’ face, it’s more subtle, a mere quirk at the corner of his mouth. “An insight that some people would consider the first step in a journey of many.”

Anders rolls his eyes. “Yes, but do these people know how bloody exhausting it is to question everything? Take you and me, for example. Wasn’t the world an easier place when we could just mindlessly loathe each other?”

“Oh,” Fenris says with one eyebrow raised in mock inquiry. “But where did you get the impression that I no longer loathe you?” 

“Do you?” Anders asks, more serious than intended, maybe because he really wants to know.

“Not quite as strongly,” Fenris says. “Not all the time. In fact – less and less. Which isn’t to say that I don’t find you immensely annoying at times.”

Anders laughs. “Thank you.”

“It was _not_ a compliment,” Fenris says. 

“Oh, but it was,” Anders says. “For what it’s worth, I’d like to express the same sentiment, but only if you let me without ridiculing me.”

Fenris groans. “Must you?”

“Now, now, no need to become flustered,” Anders says. A secret thrill goes through him as Fenris blushes, trying to hide it by turning his head to the side. Anders takes a step toward him. “You drive me to madness sometimes,” he says, marveling at how his heart feels close to leaping out of his throat. “It used to be a bad thing. Now I’m not so sure, and truth be told, I have no idea what to make of it.” He takes another step, closing the distance between them. “I’m starting to believe it is not a bad thing at all, but I don’t know what I am meant to do about it.” 

Fenris swallows, turning his head back to look at him. “What do you _want_ to do?”

“See,” Anders says softy. “Even telling you could turn out to be a very ill-advised decision.”

“Then don’t,” Fenris says. “Don’t tell me.”

The emphasis is so subtle, so barely there that Anders would have missed it if he hadn’t been waiting for it, longing for it. He takes a deep breath. “Fenris.”

Fenris bites his lips, eyes growing even darker as he keeps holding Anders’ gaze. “Yes.”

“Yes,” Anders breathes, in both relief and awe, and kisses him. Fenris’ lips part for him immediately. The kiss is everything their first one wasn’t: deep, unambiguous, setting Anders on fire. Fenris breaks the kiss to throw his head back and gasp, then kisses him again, cupping his face with his hands. The gauntlets get tangled in Anders’ hair. He hisses, and Fenris breaks the kiss to pull them off. 

Armor and robes end up discarded on the floor as they fall onto the bed, Fenris on top of him, holding him in place with a tight grip around his wrists, one knee between his legs. Anders closes his eyes, lets himself be pinned, straining against the hold but not trying to break it. His cock, achingly hard even though they’ve done little more than kissing brushes against Fenris’ thigh, and that’s all fine and well, Anders could get off rubbing against him like this, but he doesn’t want to, not this time. “Do you –” Fenris kisses him again, and Anders groans and arches into him. “Do you want to fuck me?” 

Fenris gasps. He stills, eyes widening even further. “You would let me to do that to you?” 

“ _Yes,_ ” Anders says. 

“Show me how,” Fenris says, the roughness of his voice sending a shiver down Anders’s spine. “I’ve never, with a man, you have to –“

“Oil,” Anders pants. “We need oil, tell me you have some –”

With a curse, Fenris lets go of him. Anders has a second to breathe, ask himself what he’s doing, how this can be happening, before Fenris is back with a bottle.

“Leather oil. Is that –”

“It’ll do.” Anders pulls the stopper, pouring some of it in his hand. Fenris watches him with rapt intention as Anders spreads his legs and closes his eyes. “This way,” Anders says, pushing in with one finger, then two, panting because it’s too much and not enough. “Put oil on yourself,” he says, hearing Fenris take a sharp breath, and then the sound of flesh on flesh as Fenris strokes himself. “Now. Fenris, now, come on –”

Then there’s nothing but sharp-edged _pleasure pain bliss_ as Fenris pushes in. “Yes,” Anders whispers. “Yes, like that, Maker, _please._ ” 

And Fenris makes a soft sound in reply, low in his throat, and starts to fuck him. 

~~~~~

The fire has almost gone out. It’s dark and quiet around them, past midnight. Anders traces lyrium lines with his fingers, a leisurely exploration. Fenris, lying on his side with his eyes closed, lets him. 

“What else do you remember?” Anders asks. It’s not curiosity, not really, more of an offer – Anders is listening if there’s something Fenris wants to say.

“Many things. Some of them... make me angry. I can’t seem to be able to reconcile the man I had been with the man I became...” Fenris puts a hand on Anders’ where he’s touching the markings on his forearm. “... when _this_ was done to me. It feels like the markings changed more than my body. Danarius told me I had asked for them; I didn’t believe him at first. Now that I remember more of my life before I got them, I know he was right. I was a slave among many, but arrogant and ambitious. When Danarius came to the slave houses looking for a fighter, someone strong enough to endure the procedure, I was eager to prove myself to him. I saw an opportunity to rise in rank as much as an elven slave possibly could. Danarius’ knew how to strike a bargain, he offered me my mother’s and my sister’s freedom. I wish I could say I did it for their sake, but the truth is that I saw myself above others. I was longing for power, in my own way, and the prize, at the time, seemed cheap.” 

“How old were you?” 

“I don’t know. A young man, more of a boy, I believe, but it is hard to say. Old enough to know better, to know that what the magistri want with such ardor never works out well for their slaves.” He sneers. “I wish I could say that it was magic that corrupted me. All those years when I didn’t remember anything, I thought I’d been an unwilling victim, nothing but a slave who got branded against his will. The truth is that I chose to become this, out of a thirst for power.”

“For power?” Anders asks. “Or for freedom?”

“Either. Both. I don’t know.”

“Did you want to rule others? Or did you want to be free to rule yourself?”

“I like to think it was the latter,” Fenris says. “But maybe I am deluding myself.”

“I don’t think so,” Anders says. “And in any case, you shouldn’t let it fester anymore. Whoever you were is not who you are.”

“Easy for you to say,” Fenris says, “When you know all there is about your life, your choices and why you made them.”

“Knowing why you did something does not save you from regretting it later in life,” Anders says. “But you are right, it would be daunting not to know the reasons at all.”

Fenris doesn’t say anything. Anders starts tracing the lines again, from his arms to his chest, lower down, caressing one hipbone with his thumb. Fenris shivers under the touch. Anders pauses. “Too much?”

“No,” Fenris says. 

Anders hums, then continues, slow circles, growing gradually wider. Fenris’ cock stirs between his legs. He sighs, his breath growing unsteady. Anders smiles to himself, shifting on the bed and sliding downward to rub his stubble against Fenris’ thigh. 

“Mage,” Fenris warns him, a little breathless. “ _Anders._ Do not start something if you have no intention to finish.”

“Are you going to say my name like this when I take you in my mouth?” Anders asks with a smirk. 

Fenris’ fingers clutch at the sheets as he spreads his legs for Anders to settle between them. “Do not tease me.”

“I won’t,” Anders assures him and proceeds to make good on his promise. 

~~~~~

“Do you still believe that all magic is evil?”Anders asks, propped up on a pillow, carding through Fenris’ hair, dark and damp under his fingers. 

Fenris sighs, stretching like a cat on tattered, stained bed sheets. “Would I take you to bed if I did?”

“I don’t know; would you?”

“What is it that you want to hear? That it is not magic that corrupts, but power? But Magic _is_ power, an abundance of power that no mortal should be allowed to wield over others.”

“People are born as mages, they have no choice. And above anything else they are thinking, feeling creatures with a right to be free.”

“At what cost?” Fenris asks. “Should they be allowed to do as they wish, to strive for power, blood magic, enslavement of others? Power needs to be controlled and restricted to make sure that it is not used for evil –“

“I agree with that,” Anders says. “Mages need guidance. They need to learn to act responsibly – but guidance isn’t found within a prison. If templars were guardians, not guards – if they weren’t given free reign to be masters where mages are kept like slaves –”

“In a cage with soft pillows and silk –”

“No silk, but even so, a golden cage is still a cage,” Anders says. “Would you see me in the Gallows, Fenris? Locked away behind walls and iron bars, with my magic a mere tool at the Circle’s disposal? Kept on a leash?”

“No,” Fenris says, softly. “But if it means I would never have to fight another blood mage again, see innocent lives destroyed by demons...”

“Something I hate seeing as much as you do,” Anders says. “But why did these mages turn to blood magic in the first place? To gain power over others, or to gain their freedom? Was it fear that made them choose a dark path, or were they all evil to begin with?”

“Does it matter to those they slaughtered?” Fenris aks.

“No,” Anders says. “I guess not. But then, the Circle in Kirkwall is strong and the templars rule with fear and an iron fist, and I’ve seen more blood mages here than anywhere.” He sighs, turning on his back, laying a hand over his eyes. “I know we will never agree on this. I only wish‑–”

“What is it that you wish for?” 

“That you could see mages first and foremost as the people they truly are, not as a danger to you and everyone else because of something that is beyond their control.”

Fenris is silent. They’re not touching anymore, lying beside each other, until Fenris slowly turns to his side. “When I see a mage, any mage, for the first time, all I can think of is pain,” he says. “And I hear myself scream, chained to a stone floor, the smell blood and burnt flesh all around me. I see Danarius standing above me, smiling with a reverence reserved only for his most priced possessions, magic streaming from his fingertips to burn off my skin and make me a mold for him to pour lyrium into - nothing but another precious artifact.”

Anders opens his mouth in involuntary protest. Fenris shakes his head, a clear warning, then leans over him, his hands on Anders’s shoulders. “Nothing you or anyone else says or does is going to change that. These memories stayed with me even when I forgot anything else. They are etched into my mind as the lyrium is etched into my body. But when I look at you, or even Merill, that is no longer all I think of. When I look at you...”

“What do you see?” Anders whispers. 

“Not a mage, but a man, haunted by ghosts,” Fenris says. “Driven by his past and his nightmares like I am. Eyes that remind me of my mother’s hair when she was combing it at night. Hands, knowing how to heal. Magic that feels like a cool balm on my skin.” 

Anders inhales, shocked, his face flushing with heat. 

“Lips that taunt me in my dreams,” Fenris murmurs, bowing his head. “A sharp tongue, a sharper mind, and I don’t know whether to wring your neck or lay kisses on your skin. That is what you are to me, someone brave and foolish and wondrous. Someone I see looking back at me, knowing me for who I am. I see things in you that I find... endearing. Others that aggravate and anger me, but the greatest grievance is there is very little I can truly hate.” He stares down at Anders with glittering eyes. “Is that what you wished to hear?” 

“Oh, sweet Andraste,” Anders whispers, trembling. He reaches for Fenris, helpless against the surge of want and need that threatens to consume him, pouring himself into their kiss; everything he has, everything he is.

~~~~~

“If the others could see us now,” Anders says with a yawn. Dawn is breaking outside. They haven’t found a lot of sleep, the desire too great, too new, flaring hotly and brightly between them, turning into caresses and kisses and more, again and again. Anders is beyond tired now, sated, lying on his back with Fenris curled up at his side. 

“No,” Fenris says after a moment, and there’s a bit of tension running through him now, even though Anders has done his best to chase it out of him over the course of the night. “It is not... not _theirs_ to see.”

“Is that your way of saying you want me to yourself?” Anders asks. 

“No,” Fenris says. Too tired for anything else, Anders just raises one eyebrow. “Maybe,” Fenris concedes after a moment. “For a while.” 

“For a while,” Anders agrees, and Justice adds, silently, _not long now._

~~~~~

A while are twenty-three days of urgent kisses and sleepless nights, of growing accustomed to Fenris’ bed and the smell of his sweat, of waking up nexty to him only to kiss him awake and press him into the sheets again. A while are twenty-three days of treating as many patients as he can, the lantern lit whenever he has a minute to spare. A while are twenty-three days of meeting Hakwe and the others at the Hanged Man for a round of Diamondback or Wicked Grace, trying not to let his face show any reaction while Isabela flirts with Fenris; while Varric rolls his eyes at them both; while Hawke watches them with growing suspicion because it’s been weeks since they last got into an argument in public. 

When the day comes, the sun nothing but a faint promise on the eastern sky, Anders presses a dry kiss on Fenris’ shoulder. He slides out of bed quietly, afraid Fenris might wake and look at him and _know_.


	2. Chapter 2

“I might have understood if you’d only told me,” Hawke says. The others are standing a few feet away, listening and waiting. Judging him. Anders can feel their anger, their confusion. Aveline’s righteous fury, Isabela’s bafflement. Varric’s disgust, and Fenris’... no. He can’t think of Fenris now.

“Bold plan,” Isabela says. “Well, I thought so,” she adds, more to herself, it seems, than to anyone else.

“Belief is no excuse. Sincerity does not justify... _this_ ,” Aveline argues.

“He wants to die,” Fenris says. “Kill him, and be done with it.” 

Anders closes his eyes for a second. Tries to brace himself for the inevitable, the blade at his throat, the knife through his heart. 

“He should come with us,” Merill says. “Do what he can to put things right.”

“I think I am sick of mages and templars,” Varric says, and Anders hears him spit on the ground. 

“Whatever you do – just do it,” Anders says, telling himself that the only thing bothering him is that Hakwe is taking so long.

“No,” Hawke snaps. “I am not going to kill you.”

“Hawke –“ Aveline starts, then falls silent again.

“Or rather, not _yet_ ,” Hawke says darkly. “First you will come with us and help us protect the mages.”

“After what I did – you would still allow me to come with you?” Anders says, getting to his feet to face Hawke. “Fight at your side –” 

“I’m not _allowing_ you to do anything,” Hawke corrects him with a grim expression that Anders has only ever seen directed at his worst enemies. “I’m telling you what to do. I’ve never wanted to take a side, not like this, not at the price of death and destruction. But now that it has come to this, I am going to take responsibility for it – and so are you. You are going with us to the Gallows to fight Meredith and look into the face of every mage you condemned with your actions today. And then, if you tell me again that it was worth it, so help me –” Hawke shakes his head, jaw clenching as he’s holding back on whatever curse or threat that had been at the tip of his tongue.

“We’re wasting time, Hawke,” Varric says. “Meredith is not going to sit back and drink tea while we are standing here arguing.”

Hawke straightens. “You’re right,” he says brusquely. “Time to go.”

The silence between them hangs heavy, full of unspoken words and anger as they make their way toward the docks.

~~~~~

“We are not going to be safe here forever,” Hawke says. They are gathered around the dining table in his parlor, still in their blood-splattered gear. Bodahn is puttering about, bringing bread and cheese and ham from the kitchen. Anders doesn’t think he can eat, not now, not when he still doesn’t know whether he’ll live to see another day. He doesn’t permit himself to hope. A suspension isn’t a pardon. The longer the short reprieve lasts, however, the harder it gets to maintain his composure. 

“We should go to Sundermount,” Merill says. “We can hide in the caves, then work out where to go from there.”

“That’s the first place they’re going to look for us,” Isabela says. “No, Tevinter would be much safer.”

The argue back and forth for a while until Hawke puts a stop to it. “You are all invited to stay for the night,” he says. “There’s room enough, and I’d prefer it if all of us stayed closely together for the time being. Tomorrow we’ll gather what possessions we need and leave the city. It’s too dangerous to stay here much longer.” He sounds unbearably tired. “Sleep wherever you want; ask Bodahn for whatever else you need.” He gets up from the table. Anders tenses, rising to his feet as well, wondering whether the moment has come, whether this is his last chance of for saying goodbye – 

Hawke walks past him without so much as a side glance, not faltering in his step even for a second, and leaves the room without another word. They can hear him climbs the stairs. Anders stands rooted to the spot, hands clenching uselessly at his side, itching to go after him.

Varric clears his throat and shoots him a warning glance. “If you’re waiting for him to kill you, Blondie, you’re waiting in vain; he isn’t going to, regardless of what he said.”

“But –“

“If you think that Hawke would see another loved one die and have it be his fault, you don’t know him half as well as I thought. We all knew he wasn’t going to follow through with it. Yes, he is bloody angry with you; we all are.”

“Not me,” Isabela says. 

Varric scowls at her. “You don’t count. You have no higher ground to stand on anyway. Hawke didn’t hand you over to the Arishok for much the same reasons he didn’t stab Anders in the back today. If you’re both still here, it’s because he’s a fool with a soft heart, not because either of you have _earned_ that right.” 

“Point taken,” Isabela says, and coughs. “I’ll be in the pantry, looking for something to drink myself to a stupor.”

“I’ll come with you,” Varric says. “It’s been three years; I’ve mostly forgiven you. But right now, I can’t look at that blighted mage without wanting to strangle him, so.” 

“Lovely,” Isabela says. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?” 

They, too, leave the room, heading for the kitchen. Merill is already on her way upstairs. It doesn’t take a seer to know that she’ll be spending the night with Hawke; whether as a friend or a lover, Anders doesn’t know. _A gift of kindness_. He stares down at his hands, well aware that he and Fenris are the only ones left in the parlor, a room that is simultaneously too large and too small.

“I am sorry,” he says. 

“For what?” Fenris asks from behind his back. His voice doesn’t give anything away.

“Mostly for still being alive when you so clearly wanted me to die. But also for doing what I did, not because I believe that it was wrong, but because I know that you do.” 

“So what you’re saying is that you have no regrets, you are only sorry that I don’t see things your way.”

“I regret many things,” Anders says. “But it’s of no use; it is done; there was never really a way out of this, not from the moment I took Justice in. If I could change that one decision, knowing what I know now – I would, believe it or not. But I can’t. The only thing that is left is to live with it – or die, I guess. I put my life in Hawke’s hands; I would do no less when it comes to you.” 

Anders turn and walks over to where Fenris is standing, coming to a halt a couple of feet away. The distance fells far greater than that. “You have more reason to fear mages than most. It turns out killing me meant asking too much of Hakwe, but you’ve given me no reason to believe you’d have the same qualms. I would ask this one thing of you, that if you feel I need to die for my wrongdoing, you kill me yourself, with your own hands.”

Disgust and despair are warring on Fenris’ face. “How can you –”

“What I have done... it is beyond forgiveness. There is no atonement and I am not asking for mercy. But I do ask.... or a gift of kindness, one that I have no right to expect, one that I do not deserve.” 

Fenris makes wounded noise in his throat. 

“If you despise me so much that you’d rather see me dead, do not hesitate,” Anders says. “I wouldn’t want to live knowing that you hate me – it’s isn’t something I can bear, not after all of this. After all we’ve shared, I’m asking this one thing of you. Please, Fenris –” 

With a furious snarl, Fenris reaches for him. For a second, Anders doesn’t know whether it is to kiss him or kill him, not until fingers are digging into his shoulders and Fenris’ lips, angry and harsh, come crashing down on his. 

“You have no right,” Fenris hisses, face contorted in a grimace of pain and rage. “You have _no right_  –“

“I love you,” Anders says, helplessly sincere, knowing only that he needs to say it, needs Fenris to know.

“ _You_ ,” Fenris snarls. “How _dare you_  –”

“I love you,” Anders says, lifting his hands, palms up, baring himself, his heart. 

“I _hate_ you,” Fenris says. “What have you done to me, how could you trap me so –”

“I didn’t mean to,” Anders says. “I never meant to.”

Fenris turns away from him, radiating tension from line of his body. Anders wants to reach out to him, feel him under his hands. 

“I was willing to trust you,” Fenris says. “I let you touch me. I haven’t – I haven’t been with anyone since Danrius turned me into _this_ , I couldn’t bear the thought of letting someone so close. And now you – _you_ – I know it was a mistake, all of it, how could I be this stupid?”

Ander’s legs are no longer holding him upright. He falls to his knees. “You weren’t. You weren’t. I’d rather die than hurt you –”

“Don’t say that!” Fenris spins around to glare at him, starting when he finds Anders kneeling. “You have no _right_ to say something like this.”

“But it’s the truth,” Anders simply says. “Fenris, for the love of the Maker... please.”

“Are you so eager for your own death that you keep begging me to kill you?” 

“No,” Anders says. “But I prefer it to living without you.”

Fenris stares at him, eyes wide and shocked. 

“I love you,” Anders says, and bows his head.

For a long, agonizing moment, Fenris doesn’t move. 

When he does, Anders looks up, only to see him fall to his knees right in front of him. Anders reaches for him then, burying his fingers in soft leather, pulling. He rests his forehead against Fenris’. “Forgive me”, he says.

“Maker help me,” Fenris whispers. “Maker help us all.” His hands come up to grip Anders’ shoulders tightly. Anders lets his head fall forward, burying it against Fenris’ chest, and Fenris’ closes his arms around him.

“I cannot kill you,” Fenris says. “I _cannot._ ”

“Why not?” Anders asks. 

“You know why.”

“Fenris.”

Fenris’ arms tighten their hold. He whispers something, barely audible, one word, then another. 

“Fenris,” Anders says again, a plea.

“I love you,” Fenris says. “I love you more than I hate what you did.” 

Anders’ laugh turns into a hiccough. “If I had to guess, I would say that you hate what I did _a lot._ ”

“Yes,” Fenris simply says. 

“And yet?”

“And yet.”

“Then don’t kill me,” Anders says. “Stay with me; no, _run away with me._ ” He’s clinging to Fenris now, seeking out bare skin where he can reach it, his neck, his bare forearms. 

Fenris growls. “Only you could ask something like this, tonight, of all nights.”

“Tonight,” Anders whispers. “Now, Fenris. Everything, all of it.”

He feels a shudder run through Fenris, and the touch, meant for comfort, for reassurance, turns into something else, something far more primal. Fenris groans, then his hands come up to tear at the fastenings of Anders’ robes. “I want you,” he gasps.

“Yes,”Anders says. “Show me,” his hands grappling with the buckles of Fenris’ armor, sliding over skin-tight, blood-stained leather. There’s no time to be gentle, no time to explore or caress; all that remains is a terrible hunger, an all-consuming need. 

Finally they’re naked and Anders finds himself on his back, mindlessly groping any part of bare skin he can reach, needing Fenris’ closer, _closer_. Then Fenris rises to his knees and spreads himself open, sinking down onto him with noting to ease the way for either of them. Anders cries out, shocked, and throws his head back as Fenris clenches around him, hot and too tight, and starts riding him, setting a brutal, erratic pace. Anders can hardly bear it, raking nails down Fenris’ spine, bucking his hips up wildly. Fenris gasps, eyes wide and unseeing, and starts stroking himself with one hand, using the other for leverage to rise and fall on Anders’ cock until he comes. Anders hisses through clenched teeth, thrusting up hard, once, twice, three times, panting and incapable of getting enough air into his lungs, and then he’s coming too, emptying himself inside Fenris’ body.

Fenris doesn’t let him pull away. He circles his hips, softly at first, making Anders draw in a sharp breath. His cock, softening, is sliding through his own release. It feels good enough that his toes curl. The need is still there, less urgent now, an undercurrent beneath a smooth surface that is going to pull them under again, he can already feel it. And then it does and they are moving together again, slowly at first, then faster, until the lyrium lines are glowing on Fenris’ skin, calling out to Anders’ magic that responds in kind. Fenris moans, fingers clawing at Anders’ chest. Anders squeeezes his eyes shut as the pleasure surges and crests, as he’s spending himself a second time in shuddering waves. _Too soon._ Still shaking, Anders sits up, then tips them over until he has Fenris spread out under him, on his back. His cock slips out, making Fenris hiss. Anders slides down, pushing in with two fingers instead. It earns him a shocked gasp. A shiver is running though Fenris’ body. He takes Fenris’ cock in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks to suck. Not even a minute later, Fenris comes with a low moan, bitter and salty on his tongue. Anders swallows it all. 

He lifts his head to capture Fenris’ gaze. “I love you,” he says. Fenris groans and reaches for him, kisses him, licking into his mouth. It lasts a long time, turning slow and sloppy, until they’re merely sharing each others' breath, curled up closely together on the rug before the fireplace. 

“I have not forgiven you,” Fenris murmurs. 

“I know.”

Fenris grunts in annoyance. Anders smiles, tiredly, and has the presence of mind to reach for the woolen blanket on top of the armchair and pull it on top of them. Just a short nap, until they find somewhere else to bed down for the night.

~~~~~

The morning is too much of everything: too early, too bright, too cold, and it has Hawke in it, standing at the doorstep and staring at them with a bemused expression. He clears his throat, causing Fenris to sit up and freeze with a look of wariness, hand reaching for a sword that isn’t within reach. 

“Good morning,” Hawke says. “Could I possibly talk to Anders for a second – alone?”

Fenris hesitates. His eyes wander from Hawke to Anders, back again, narrowing, almost as if –

Hawke lifts his hands, a placating gesture. “No knives, see? My intentions are pure.”

After a second, Fenris nods and throws the blanket off. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by his nudity, at least not to the point of making any attempts to cover himself for the short time it takes to reach for his clothes and slip them on. He collects his sword and the rest of his armor, throwing one last glance at Anders before leaving the room. He brushes past Hawke, who has kept his eyes politely averted the whole time, a faint flush on his face, and clears his throat again once after Fenris is gone. 

Anders sighs and gives up trying to untangle his shirtsleeves. He looks up at Hawke, who comes over, bending down along the way to pick up one of Anders’ boots and drop it at his feet before sitting down on the armchair. 

“Well,” Hawke says. “This certainly wasn’t what I expected to find when I came looking for you.”

Anders winces. “I can imagine. I’m sorry.”

“Is this development... recent?”

“Define ‘recent’.”

“Just this night, or...”

“No,” Anders says. 

“Oh.” Hawke scratches his beard. “Well. Obviously I wasn’t aware of that. I admit I am a bit surprised; you two have been making a show of hating each other for six, closer to seven years now.” 

“It wasn’t for show,” Anders says. “We really _did_ hate each other. But things changed after Varric and I saved him from Danarius. Fenris and I... I guess you could say we found... some kind of common ground.”

“Common ground?” Hawke says. “Is that a paraphrase for fornication that I’m not aware of?”

“Um.”

Hawke laughs weakly, wiping a hand over his brow. “Look, Anders... I should have spoken to you last night. I didn’t mean to leave you doubting your fate. I was convinced you would know that I wasn’t going to kill you, but Merill said that _she_ didn’t think you did.”

“Varric explained it to me,” Anders said. “Though I’m still not sure I understand why.“

“I hate what you did,” Hawke says. “I hate that you didn’t tell me, that you didn’t give me a chance to prevent this from happening. I hate that you didn’t trust me enough – and that you knew that I would find a way to talk you out of it, which is akin to admitting that you already _knew better._ What I hate most of all is that you were willing to let me kill you just because you didn’t want to face the consequences of your actions. I hadn’t thought you such a coward.”

Anders swallows around a lump in his throat. It’s no less than he deserves, but it’s difficult to hear. 

“And that’s the other reason why I am not going to kill you,” Hawke continues. “I am not going to let you hide from this, not in death, not anywhere. You are going to live, and you are going to do what you can to help, to stop the war you started. We’re going to be fugitives, hunted by everyone. But we _will_ also try to put things right, as best as we can. You had to go and _change the world_. Well, if we get to live with the results, then so do you.”

“That sounds... fair, actually,” Anders says.

“No,” Hawke says. “Nothing about this is _fair._ Bu it is the closest thing to being _just_ that I can come up with that doesn’t involve your death. Others will call that a weakness and hate me for it. But I find that I don’t have it in me to kill you. I love you like a brother, Anders, and Maker knows that Carver was a pain in the ass at times, but if I could have prevented his death, even if it came at the price of my own, I would have.”

“Hawke –”

“Don’t make me regret this. Never do something like this again.”

“I an not going to,” Anders says. “Thank you for my life. I’ll try not to make such a mess of it this time. If you let me, I’ll follow you; Maker knows I’m terrible at coming up with directions on my own.”

“ I can’t really disagree with you there,” Hawke says and sighs. “Fine. We’ll be fugitives together. It’s not as if I have anything better to do. And property is overrated.”

“It is,” Anders says. “The true treasure lies elsewhere.”

“If you start raving now about the value of _friendship_ and _true love_ , I will have to stab you after all,” Hawke says. “Stop being meek; it doesn’t become you.”

“But I think I will be, for a while,” Anders says. “Humbled, at least. I didn’t expect you to forgive me – any of you. It’s amazing to know that I’ve made friends that are willing to stick with me even after this.”

“Then do us a favor and do not test our friendships like this again.”

“I won’t,” Anders promises again. 

Hawke nods. His smile, still rather strained, turns more sincere after a second. “Oh, and be prepared to reveal all the sordid details of your love life over breakfast. I want to see Isabela’s face when she realizes just how much she’s missed.”

“You’re an evil man, Hawke.”

“It has occasionally been said.” Hawke says, pats Anders on the head like a dog and heads into the kitchen, leaving the door to the parlor open. Hawke can hear their companions’ voices, raised to debate what they should have for breakfast, and where they should go from here. _Amaranthine_ , Anders thinks. If they let him have a say. 

Fenris reappears, standing in the door frame. He’s fully dressed now and has obviously found a place to wash and clean the worst of the blood off his armor. His hair looks like a bird’s nest. Anders’ smiles at him.

Fenris scowls. “What is there to smile about?” 

“Nothing,” Anders says. “’I’m just glad to be here, alive. Though I’m afraid that our torrid love affair is no longer going to be a secret.”

“So I gathered.”

“Does that upset you?”

“No,” Fenris says. “However; I am not looking forward to Isabela’s inevitable attempts to satisfye her curiosity by prying into our private lives.” 

“Maybe we can distract her for a while, after all, there are more important topics to discuss right now,” Anders says, hopeful.

Fenris glares at the kitchen door as if Isabela were already standing there. “I doubt it.”

“Then I guess we will just have to get throught it somehow,” Anders says, sighing. “Together.” He wishes the last part hadn’t come out quite as tentative. He looks at Fenris for confirmation, catches him with a strangely open look on his face. 

Fenris looks away, shifting his weight. “I’ll be at your side,” he says, voice low. He blinks, furrowing his brown, as if his own words are puzzling him.

Anders swallows. “As I’ll be at yours.” 

“That sounds... acceptable,” Fenris says and swallows.

Suddenly Anders wants nothing more than to pull Fenris down for kisses and a repetition of what they did last night and then some, but Fenris wouldn’t appreciate the attempt. Instead Anders smiles and says, “I better get up and dress. Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

It’s a new day. The world has changed, irrevocably so. It’s going to change even further in the years to come, and hopefully for the better one day. There are no easy answers to the problems that lie ahead of him, but whatever decisions he makes, they’ll be his own, with no excuse for him to hide behind. He’s not going to be alone and that, Anders concludes, has to count for something. To him, at least, it does.


End file.
